


(could you) let me know

by turtlemyths



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Idols, M/M, Minghao Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 21:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlemyths/pseuds/turtlemyths
Summary: “Seungcheol-hyung says nobody’s always that happy,” he says, apropos of nothing, but in Mandarin this time.It’s strange, he thinks, how you can feel the need to recognise yourself.





	(could you) let me know

**Author's Note:**

> u know.... idk what this is. i was suddenly overcome by a lot of emotion for minghao and i wanted to focus on his character, which was how this was born in a flurry of "i need to write this" and "i have so much more to fit in but i'm tired". it's not what i wanted it to be, and i'm hoping one day i'll be better at writing so i can revisit this properly, but til then - !! also not proofread or betaed.
> 
> cultural (?) notes -  
> \- junhui is from shenzhen, south(ish) of china. his mandarin is spoken more gently, slurred almost.  
> \- gege: older brother in mandarin. didi: younger brother. mandarin is nearly devoid of age based honorifics like hyung - instead, the -ge (older brother) suffix is generally only used on someone with whom you are familiar (or if you're, like, buttering up a stallholder, lmao). NB the older-person-addressing suffix is more common than the younger-person-addressing one  
> \- xiao [name]: 'xiao' literally means 'small' - common way of cutesifying a name. chinese netizens call minghao 'xiao ba' (small 8) because, you know, his stage name is 'the8'. very often used on children.

“And HOLD – six, seven, eight – RELAX. Alright, guys, we’re done for today, good job everyone!” Soonyoung calls out, assertive even at the end of an exhausting day of practice. There’s a chorus of groans as the crowd of boys disperses to different corners of the room to relax, and Minghao resists the urge to echo it for an entirely different reason, trudging to where he’d left his waterbottle by the mirrors.

“Hey. You okay?”

Minghao’s head snaps up to make eye contact with Seungcheol – the oldest boy, and for a moment his mouth works awkwardly to try to form a response. A month in Korea has given him the _absolute_ basics – hello, thank you, I’m fine, how are you, and you? – and it’s the third of these platitudes that falls out in response, caught off-guard and unused to the finer intricacies of the language with all its honorifics and implications.

It seems to work – the doe-eyed boy grins in response, patting him on the back once before turning off with a shout of _Yoon Jeonghan!_ followed by something he can’t really understand. Minghao can’t hide the relief that bubbles up, pressing down the small spiteful voice that asks _what did he expect, a full elucidation of every trouble I’ve had since arriving in a language that looks and sounds nothing like my own_? He knows Seungcheol means well.

Wiping sweat off his forehead with his towel leads his gaze to his own image in the mirror. Minghao takes in the skinniness of his own frame, thinks about the weight he’s probably lost because Korean food tastes nothing like what his mother would cook in Anshan. Bites his lip because it is by his own vanity that he’s here, miles away from home and an uncertain future. Resolves to stomach more, maybe at least the rice.

There’s an excited yelp, and he watches in the mirror as the other Chinese boy – Junhui, he knows – heads out of the room, babbling in halting but apparently sufficient Korean to three others, whose cheery expressions mirror his, drinking up his energy like sunshine. He has long hair that doesn’t really suit him, but maybe that’s bitterness talking – his welcome is clear, and Minghao – who sometimes feels trapped in his own skin – can’t help but envy the easy way he commands attention.

With a sigh, he picks up his waterbottle and makes to head back to the dorm as well, knowing that going missing would cause a fuss. He walks close enough to the others to seem like he’s amongst them, but keeps his gaze close to the ground to avoid a repeat incident.

 

-

 

Two days later, Minghao resists the urge to hurl his pencil at the wall in frustration, unable to wrap his tongue around the flat diphthongs or his mind around the conjugations, head swimming with characters that blur together into a mess of shapes. But his white-knuckled grip doesn’t escape the notice of Junhui, who peers curiously at him from where he’s doing his own exercise, over a year’s worth more advanced in difficulty.

“Whoa, what’s up, Minghao?” he says, putting down his own pen, and the mere sound of Mandarin is a warm tide that Minghao knows how to swim in – “Wait, did something happen, I’m sorry –“

Backs of his hands pressed to his eyes in a futile attempt to stem the tears that have without his permission begun to fall, Minghao doesn’t say anything, biting his lip and curling in upon himself to hide his shame. _Don’t look at me_ , he wants to say, but it doesn’t come out, some part of him afraid to concede defeat by speaking in his native tongue, and he feels a stab of irritation when he realises he doesn’t know the negative imperative in Korean.

He hears footsteps padding away, but soon a soft baritone is closer than it was previously. “Shh, it’s okay. You can cry if you want to.”  Hands are ineffectually dabbing at his face from the side, and when Minghao lowers his hands to take the tissue into his own hands Junhui switches to gently pat his head a while before he drops the arm to hang loosely around Minghao’s shoulders instead. “Wanna talk about it?”

His voice is soft and high, Southern accent gentle and comforting to the ears. Minghao doesn’t need to look to know those wide, catlike eyes are trained on him, waiting on his every gesture. He desperately and futilely wishes, for that moment, that he hadn’t just cut his bangs, and tips his head lower anyway.

“I,” Minghao allows himself to say, and savours the sound of the syllable in his mouth, the round flow of _w_ into the _o_. “Not really,” he says instead, volume flaring at the end, embarrassment catching up to him now that the massive rush of emotion has subsided.

With some effort, he tears his hands away from his face, schooling his expression into a generous attempt at a smile. The strength with which he jerks his head back up has the added benefit of knocking the searing heat of Junhui’s hand away. “I’m fine!”

 Junhui, unsurprisingly, looks taken aback, blinking blankly at the sudden change in demeanour. But he recovers quickly, lapsing into a gentle laugh that sounds surprisingly genuine. “Okay, but you can ask me anything anytime, okay? I’ll be your big bro!”

Minghao smiles automatically at this unabashed enthusiasm, tucking away his discomfort into the back of his head. “In that case,” he says slowly, “Can you explain this…?”

The way Junhui’s face lights up as he leans forward to explain, head coming way too close, nose nearly touching his own, causes an uncomfortable staccato in his chest, a tattoo clanging up his windpipe. Minghao wrangles the creature into a box and shoves it down, down, down.

 

-

 

After that, things get easier – almost comically so. Junhui takes to looking out for him in conversations, in practice, at mealtimes. He barely has any time to feel lost before he’s being gripped loosely by the wrist and pulled along, a soft running stream of translation cushioning him from gazes occasionally too curious, a sometimes-sharp word.

He learns that the two boys who are always glued together are Joshua and Jeonghan, and that they’d both arrived only a while before he had. Jeonghan – who has long hair like Jun’s – coos “He’s so _cute_ ,” and shamelessly pinches his cheek, and unwittingly he finds himself adopted again.

Seoul is like a dream. As the days pass he catches snippets of the older boys yearningly talking about debut, wondering how far away it might be. Sometimes he hears the names of boys he’s never seen before, always accompanied by a mood sombre and wistful, but he doesn’t ask. Debut is an image through water, that wavy blue image flickering before your eyes, sound coming from miles away.

Four months in, everyday sentences are becoming clearer and he no longer needs Junhui to translate the more mundane aspects of conversation. But Minghao still doesn’t speak much, frustrated by how childlike he sounds, aided by what he knows are guileless features, and however well-meaning Jeonghan is it’s occasionally tiring being babied.

He turns to what he knows  - and what he knows is dancing, a beat in his veins, a flow from his feet to his back to his hands. Breaking is the art of letting go and reining back in, and it’s effortless if he closes his eyes and lets muscle memory lead him through one movement into the other.

The sound of applause breaks him out of his trance, and Minghao half-topples out of the freeze, self-awareness robbing him of his fluidity. He scrambles to his feet with an awkward “Junhui- _ge_ ,”, unsure if he’s supposed to bow or otherwise engage in performatively honorific behaviour.

He realises he needn’t have worried when Junhui bounds over, smiling goofily. “That’s the first time you called me _ge_ ,” the older is cackling, bouncing a little bit on the balls of his feet, he’s so excited. “You accepted me!”

It’s frankly baffling, and he communicates as much. “I don’t think so,” he mumbles slowly, “I’m sure I’ve called you _ge_ before. I call everyone –“

“ _Hyung_. You call everyone _hyung_. This is the first time you’ve called me _ge_ , and I’m your only _ge_ , so I’m special!” Junhui’s teeth are slightly uneven, Minghao notices, even as an inexplicable weight settles inside his gut. It’s distressingly distracting when he smiles.

“I guess,” is his noncommittal reply. Part of him is screaming to politely move away, but his feet are lead as Junhui links their arms together and pulls him so they’re standing side by side, close to the mirror.

They make an odd-looking pair: Junhui is slightly taller but wider-shouldered, with features that, though still ungainly, are one day likely to make Adonis weep. He, on the other hand, is slight of frame and even slighter by comparison, a pair of chopsticks with an unremarkable face. It had never really bothered him until now.

Junhui, though, is oblivious to the incessant noise inside Minghao’s brain. “Look,” he chatters cheerily, “ _ge_ ” (he points to himself) – “ _di_ ” – (he points to Minghao). Then he laughs, bright and clear, unlinking their arms and turning them so they’re facing each other instead. “Anyway, _xiao Hao_ , can you teach me that freeze? It was way cool!”

The diminutive is (if teasingly) affectionate, as is the familial term of address Junhui had been so delighted about him using. It reminds him of his mother’s patient appeals to _come along now_ , occasional in spots of his memory drenched in sunlight. It is a sign that they are growing closer, and that he has found a trustworthy figure who will look out for him as if he were his own blood. This is a good thing. It means he is one step closer to calling Seoul home.

So goes the mental litany he begins to drown out the unbearable, inexplicable weight of _little brother_.

 

-

 

Jeonghan chances upon him, one blessed free day, hunched up in the empty lot opposite their building, cradling in both hands a cup of bubble tea that tastes nothing like it’s supposed to. He sees the shadow fall across him, but doesn’t break his resolute sipping.

“Hey,” the older says, uncharacteristically gentle without the others around. “Mind if I join you?”

Minghao makes to shrug, then remembers he should be more polite to his seniors. Instead, he shakes his head, and scoots over a fraction so Jeonghan can plonk himself down unceremoniously next to him. Idly, he picks at a loose thread on his cheap jeans.

“Needed space?”

He snaps the string off, but creates another fray in the process. “Dorm’s crowded,” he mumbles, shorthand for the things he doesn’t know how to say in any language.

“Mm, the proximity is a bit much, isn’t it?” Jeonghan hums prettily, and when Minghao finally drags his eyes away from his knee to look at the older boy, he’s hit by the thought that _pretty_ is a very good descriptor of Jeonghan in general. He doesn’t know what to do with that information.

“’Prox…imity’?”

Jeonghan startles into looking directly at him, eyes apologetic. “Sorry. I mean, having people close to you all the time. All day, every day. It’s…how should I put it… uncomfortable, yeah?”

‘Uncomfortable’ is _one_ word for the awful typhoon of emotions that assaults him on a regular basis, arresting his every thought. That sensation, certainly, is born out of this endless so-called _proximity_. But there are other things in there, too, and maybe he shouldn’t be asking Jeonghan, but the imp sitting on his chest hasn’t moved in weeks. “Hyung.”

Wordlessly, Jeonghan holds out his hand for Minghao’s drink, which he finds himself handing over automatically. “Yeah?” he urges, taking a dainty sip before returning it.

Minghao accepts the cup, grateful for the distraction it provides his fidgety hands. “I, um, have a question.” Stalling, he busies himself with his drink – even if the taste is wrong, it still makes him think of home. When Jeonghan only raises an eyebrow in query, he wills himself to open his stupid mouth once more. “Is it weird,” he says, dragging the words inch by inch out from an anchor, “to not know whether you want someone near you?”

The question gives Jeonghan pause, judging by the way his eyebrow falls slack, only to slant downwards, furrowed in confusion. “Are you asking me if it’s weird to be undecided about whether someone’s your friend? Because that’s totally normal, Hao, especially given how annoying boys can be. But everyone here means well, you know that, right?”

Minghao shakes his head a bit too violently. “No, that’s not it,” he mumbles, then focuses on wiping the condensation off his cup and taking another long sip before speaking. “I mean…” and here he tries to be careful with his words, but they run away from him anyway – “I like when this person is near me, but sometimes he’s too near, and I don’t know if I am…” Comfortable? Happy? Allowed? He’s not sure what ends that sentence, and concludes instead by passing the conversational baton.

Jeonghan purses his lips in contemplation, fingers lightly compressing the plastic. “I’m not entirely sure I’m understanding you right, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing, so.” When he releases the pressure there’s a _pop_. “Why don’t you ask Junhui? That way you can speak in Chinese – Oh. _Oh_. Sweetheart.”

In a rush, he’s being cradled to Jeonghan’s chest, head tucked into the nook between neck and shoulder. A hand is running gently through his hair, the other a firm presence around his waist, and despite the distinct discomfort of being cramped into someone shorter than himself Minghao closes his eyes and allows himself to be held. Briefly, the world stops tilting so violently.

“It’s okay if you like him,” Jeonghan is murmuring, lightly rocking him like he’s not seventeen and by all accounts on the cusp of adulthood. “There’s nothing wrong with your feelings.” He hesitates, and there’s an unmistakeable crack in his voice when he adds, “We all have them.”

An icy grip is closing around his lungs, tendrils in his windpipe. He pulls away and says, “I don’t … like Jun,” but it’s weak even to his own ears, the end tilting up like a question. “I’m not even…” The word he doesn’t say clangs into the silence, his statement hollow.

“I think there are things you need to work out for yourself,” Jeonghan says, tone severe but not unkind. His lips are set in a thin line as he stands and picks up the forgotten cup, extending one hand which Minghao takes to hoist himself to his feet as well. “You can talk to me any time, but for now…”

He nods numbly. “I need to think.”

Jeonghan smiles wanly but it’s a sign of approval nonetheless, and his grip is warm as he leads them both back in.

 

-

 

He’s sitting by himself at a table, pen scratching away in characters that don’t quite come into focus. If he tries to look directly at them the lines shift, continuously, a parade of metamorphosis, so he averts his eyes, even as his hand scratches away rhythmically at the paper.

He appears to be in a study, or a library – something like the one they had in his middle school, but fancier. Although he’s in an alcove the line of shelves seems to extend for miles, each construct tall and broad as well. The tomes lining them are indistinct, but they go on forever, and the thought of it starts a slow throbbing in the back of his head. Instead he looks up, and there’s a figure there, smiling small and soft as he slides into a seat.

“Hey,” the boy says, but instead of a voice the sound expands inside his chest. The curve of his lips feels intimate, and he has to fight the feeling that he’s intruding by having that look turned on him. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

He wants to offer some sort of reply – _no, it’s okay, I wasn’t here long, I’ve been preoccupied anyway_ – but he cannot open his mouth, and when he looks down the words he has been furiously scribbling swim into urgent focus: One name, over and over again. _Junhui, Junhui, Junhui Junhui JunhuiJunhuiJunhuijunhui_

 

When Minghao bolts into consciousness, so violently he nearly hits his head on Mingyu’s bunk above his, it’s all he can do to push his face into his pillow to muffle the sound of his gasping, heaving sobs.

 

-

 

They debut. They earn their own debut show, and even though _Adore U_ doesn’t net them any music show wins, they make enough of a splash to garner a following. Privately, Minghao is relieved – he isn’t sure what they would do with the kind of roaring success some might expect them to dream of, doesn’t know how that would change their already morphing dynamics.

The thing is, it’s like having thirteen cogs in a many-jointed machine, interlocked and pushing every which way. Some configurations work. But sometimes something changes shape, or turns the other way, and that sets off a series of intermeshing pushes and pulls that results in a malfunction (at best) or outright breakdown (at worst). The latter hasn’t happened yet, but he prays – as his own, solitary wheel cranking along in the corner – that it doesn’t.

Seungcheol plops down next to him on the boardwalk, looking unbearably young all bundled up in a pink hoodie two sizes too big for him. He’s only twenty-one, but carries the twelve of them with him, even if it isn’t always his burden to bear. Feeling a bit overcome, Minghao scoots a bit closer.

“Hyung,” he says, by way of greeting.

Seungcheol, gummy smile ablaze, slings an arm around his shoulder, and Minghao allows himself to play into the small, puppy-like image he knows they’ve created of him, nuzzling into the hold. The night sea breeze bites, but it can’t get at him, face tucked into Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“Today was a ride, huh,” the older is musing, hand curling around to absently pet Minghao on the head. The rhythm soothes a turmoil he wasn’t aware was dancing within him. “Cameras everywhere.”

Minghao nods jerkily, and the movement causes them both to rock a little. “I felt so…watched,” he mumbles, “Feels like there might be one here too.”

“If there is I’ll make them edit it out,” Seungcheol declares instantly, resolute and firm. Minghao, by way of answer, takes Seungcheol’s spare hand and holds it between both of his own, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to communicate the depth of the gratitude that suddenly washes over him. For a while, the only voice is the murmur of breaking waves.

“I didn’t know it bothered you too, hyung,” Minghao offers at length, quiet like he’s afraid of waking the sea. “I couldn’t tell.”

Seungcheol hums. “It’s different from the cameras we’re used to. More… performative.” And then, “I think the only one who’s at ease is Junnie. He’s a child actor, after all. He grew up around cameras.”

Junhui’s name gives Minghao pause, and he weighs his words slowly before speaking. In the distance, a small light blinks very faintly on what might be the horizon. “He acts the same whether or not we’re being filmed.”

He’d felt the juxtaposition, starkly; he, himself, had melted as far back into the shadows as possible, but the crew loved Junhui – that the rest of them had scaled themselves down to fit into TV-size had only augmented his brightness, that ever-present energy and vibrant laugh. It had only made the hole in his gut wider.

“It’s because he’s always performing,” Seungcheol replies, linking and unlinking their fingers with a puerile fascination belying the weight of his words. Then he laughs. “I think, anyway. I mean, have you ever seen Jun look even vaguely upset?”

For a moment Minghao feels his breath catch in his throat, afraid and wondering if Seungcheol knows that he’s always watching Junhui, that of anyone – _anyone_ in the group, he would know. Then Seungcheol’s foot knocks lightly into his where he’s swinging them lightly, and the jolt to his system forces him to exhale. “No,” he says, truthfully.

“Neither have I. From the first day he came, he was always smiling, brilliant to the point that I began to wonder if I should really be the leader, if I couldn’t keep up with someone as cheerful as he was.” Minghao chances a glance upwards, and Seungcheol looks distant, voice out there with that bright dot on the maybe-horizon. “But I don’t think anyone’s that happy all the time. Not if they’re being honest.”

Honest. The word sticks in his brain, latching onto the box labelled _Junhui_ that he’d shoved into a corner and allowed to neglect. Maybe that was something the two of them had in common.

“Anyway,” Seungcheol says, gently untangling their hands and standing up. “Let’s get back to the house. You’re freezing.”

Minghao blinks, startled to find his teeth are involuntarily chattering, and that his hands, wind-bitten, are devoid of sensation. He shoves them into his pockets. Strange; he hadn’t noticed.

 

-

 

In the final edits, Junhui will receive captions dubbing him _optimistic, bright, lucky_ – seemingly effortlessly he creates television-worthy moments. It’s enviable how he makes a show out of chopping firewood, valiantly lifts dull spirits, peels himself open just enough to reveal climbing viewership.

“You’re staring.”

Minghao whips around at the voice in his ear to see a flash of long red hair disappear behind Wonwoo. A few meters away, Junhui tilts his head back in a full-body laugh at something Joshua says, a moment that will doubtless be included in the final cut somehow.

“ _Ge_ ,” he says later, behind the house, when the camera’s focused on Seungcheol pitifully peeling onions outside. “Can I talk to you? Tonight.”

Junhui lets his confusion show, but his charismatic smile doesn’t for a second falter. “Sure,” he agrees readily. He cocks his head slightly in question, and he’s so _pretty,_ slightly lopsided smile revealing the sharp edge of a canine, golden skin reflecting the ambient light.

Minghao tears his gaze away from the film still. “Boardwalk, post-filming,” he says, then picks up a pan, shouting “I found it!” loud enough to be heard from the outside as he takes his leave.

 

-

 

There’s a figure seated on the edge of the stairs that lead down to the water when he arrives, Minghao having been held back for a while on clean-up duty because, besides himself, nobody apart from Mingyu actually knows how to hold a broom.

Something about the way he looks, like his lines don’t quite mesh with the world around him, causes Minghao to make his footfalls louder, announcing his approach.

Junhui responds, an actor to a cue. “ _Xiao Hao_!” He stands and waves.

“Hyung,” Minghao greets, pretending not to notice the flash of hurt as he continues. “Are you okay?”

The question is blunt, but Minghao has never been anything but, even when afraid. He wonders whether Junhui really has reason to look so surprised, or whether that expression, too, is practiced. He’s been thinking about what Seungcheol said, turned the words over and over in his head until they were fraying at the edges.

“Hao,” Junhui says. “Is that really all you wanted to – “

“Are you?”

Junhui flinches, so imperceptible it would’ve been easy to miss if he hadn’t been looking him straight in the eye, a gaze held so steadily it borders on combative.

“Yeah, why?” He’s quick to recover, and is wearing that smile, posture relaxed and one hand in his pocket.

All of a sudden, Minghao sees himself standing there, challenging Junhui, and is overcome by the distinct image of himself as a belligerent child, demanding answers to questions it might not be his place to ask.

But he – he has to know, and if he wants to believe so then it is that which makes the difference. He takes a step closer, then opens his mouth woodenly. “There are no cameras here, hyung.”

It’s a calculated risk he takes. Junhui looks at him for a long while, wind mussing his hair. His expression is unreadable.

Eventually he asks, very softly, “Why are we speaking in Korean?”

Minghao drops the eye contact, stares instead at Junhui’s knees. “Seungcheol-hyung says nobody’s always that happy,” he says, apropos of nothing, but in Mandarin this time.

 _It’s strange_ , he thinks, _how you can feel the need to recognise yourself._

“Hao,” Junhui’s voice floats over to him, feet drawing closer. “Why are you asking me this?” It’s not an answer, but maybe its avoidance is close enough to an admission. Even knowing it for what it is, Minghao hesitates.

“There are no cameras here,” Junhui parrots, and when Minghao looks up they’re an arm’s width apart.

His eyes are dark, but his tone is even as he continues. “You can’t expect me to answer your question if you can’t answer mine.”

He sees too much.

Suddenly _I just wanted to know_ feels stale.

“I,” Minghao starts, wondering if he’s already given himself away, and when he takes a step back for a moment he is falling into quicksand, the ground looming up to swallow him for his hubris in thinking this conversation was his to command.

“I just,” he says, the next foot following, his body turning of its own accord, “I thought I should –“

He forces himself to look away from Junhui’s face, now a mien of genuine confusion. Those delicate lips are forming into a question, his name on the tip of Junhui’s tongue –

Minghao turns tail, and runs.

 

-

 

His avoidance strategy works for all of two and a half weeks, meeting its end when Minghao, trying to evade confrontation, panics and walks straight into a stairwell that doesn’t lead anywhere important. He’s barely turned to leave, cursing his own stupidity, when the door swings open and he’s confronted by the devil himself, arms crossed and blocking his only escape route.

“Hyung,” he says weakly, flashing a smile he knows is unconvincing at best.

“Don’t _hyung_ me,” Junhui snaps back in Mandarin, pushing forward and letting the door swing shut behind him. The _bang_ echoes up stories of spiralling concrete. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.” He screws his eyes shut for a moment, as if counting. “In fact, before that, you got a little weird for maybe… months. Felt like you were using Jeonghan-hyung to, like, keep me away, or something.”

There’s an undisguised note of hurt in his voice, and Minghao tries not to be overwhelmed by the guilt of being responsible for Junhui making an exception of his usual emotional espionage. An unseen hand is twisting his insides, a Gordian knot of shame and humility – he hadn’t thought Junhui would _realise_.

When no reply is forthcoming, Junhui’s initially hard expression collapses. “Minghao. I just want you to talk to me.” He swallows. “Please. At least – at least look at me.”

He owes him perhaps that much. Minghao’s gaze meets Junhui’s, and he sees the discolouration under his eyes, the harsh glare of reflected fluorescence. The hand twists harder. “It’s – you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says in a rush, even though he’s not so sure it was the answer to the question that was asked.

Junhui scoffs, but it’s tired and without heat. “I know.” And then, with less bravado, “But I must’ve done _something_.”

Minghao thinks of all the times he’s had to look away from Junhui’s brilliance, tried to find another sun to orbit, afraid to become another moon. Condemned himself to a haphazard cycle instead, riding tangents between one pull to the other with no end in sight. When his vision starts to swim he realises he’s held his breath a second too long, and exhales noisily. “No, it’s.”

“It’s?”

“I just wanted to know.”

Junhui frowns. “Know what?”

“Your question, from Yeoseodo. I’m answering it.”

There’s a silence as Junhui processes the statement. Inanely, Minghao thinks to himself that he needs to use more conditioner. His split ends are showing.

“What?”

Minghao is jolted out of his trance by the sound of regular-Junhui, the one who doesn’t ask difficult questions about emotional motivations or commence confrontations about avoidance. He’s briefly confused until he realises he’d unintentionally spoken aloud. “Well. You do have _awful_ split ends, Jun.”

And then, motivated by some unknown force, he adds, peeking up hesitantly through his own rainbow-coloured mop, “You should pay more attention to yourself sometime.”

Incredibly, the fog in Junhui’s eyes seems to clear, just a little bit, and his smile emerges like the aftermath of a spring shower. “Why do that when I could have you to do it for me?” His tone is coy and he’s the picture of confidence as he draws closer, caging the younger loosely against the bannister.

But uncertainty is written clearly in the cock of his head and the looseness of his grip, giving Minghao the option to brush him aside, abscond from this too-personal conversation while leaving them both mostly intact. It isn’t like he doesn’t consider it.

“Wen Junhui,” he breathes, instead, daring him by leaning into his space, eyes closed so he doesn’t lose his courage. “If this is you pulling your stupid flirtatious _bullshit_ for shits and giggles, I swear to God I’ll –“

“I’m not joking, Hao.”

He opens his eyes, and Junhui’s closer, close enough to count his individual eyelashes, the full force of his attention enough to bring a flush to his cheeks. Minghao steadies himself.

“That doesn’t mean you’re a good idea,” he mutters angrily, at odds with the way his lanky arms have somehow reached out to encircle Junhui’s waist, pulling him into an embrace. “Doesn’t mean I’m one either. I’ll fuck it up, or you will. We don’t even converse like normal people do.” It doesn’t explain the way his grip tightens a little bit at the mention of falling apart, or how he angles his shoulder to be more comfortable.

Junhui huffs, and his breath tickles at Minghao’s neck when he speaks. “You’ll at least let me try, right?” Softer, “You’ll let me in sometimes?”

Minghao can’t quite shake the feeling that maybe he’s the one being held. Suddenly tired, he rests his head against Junhui’s, hands tangling in the back of his shirt. The warmth and soft cotton ground him a little, help to convince him to be a little bit less afraid of the fall. “Only if you do the same,” he mumbles.

 

-

 

“The word you’re looking for is _confluence_ ,” Minghao coaches patiently, pen scratching on paper as he leans over to spell it out in writing. He _tsks_ in disapproval as he finishes, resting his head on one hand. “I swear, I’m gonna beat you at Korean soon. It wouldn’t kill you to ask for help every now and then.”

As if he’s suddenly remembering something, he leans back into Junhui’s space, pulling the paper towards him. “Wait, do you need me to give a definition? It means – “

Behind them, visible in the reflection of the dance studio mirrors, Mingyu is trying, with little success, to convince Wonwoo to piggyback Jihoon so he can pick them both up at once and create a ladder effect. Chan and Soonyoung appear to be having a body gag showdown, cheered on by a pun-generating Seokmin, noise-producing Seungkwan and Hansol, who’s clapping like a dying seal in silent, immobile laughter.

He makes eye contact with Jeonghan, who is standing with Joshua and Seungcheol, smiling fondly at some anecdote or the other. The older simply scrunches his nose in acknowledgment, leaning in to say something to the other two, who cast glances their way and simultaneously burst into grins. He can’t help but return the expression.

 _late Middle English: from late Latin_ confluentia _, from Latin_ confluere _‘flow together’._

Junhui gently catches Minghao’s hand and intertwines it with his own. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> if u liked this or just, like, want to make friends with a fellow emotional mess, please [holla at me](http://twitter.com/cheolble) (let me know u came from ao3)


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